


Three Excesses

by Anonymous



Category: Arrested Development
Genre: F/M, Fantasizing, Masturbation, Scents & Smells, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 12:34:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6284779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lindsay made just three mistakes. Not mistakes, maybe — just three transgressions, three indulgences. It's a nice, round number.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first one was really very small, and almost innocent.

Lindsay was poking through Michael’s room, looking for the corporate checkbook; she had already rifled through the drawers and checked under the bed, but those were too obvious. Michael knew better than to leave things hidden like that. This was a den of thieves, and Michael wasn’t ignorant of his place here. He’d leave it somewhere she’d never look.

She thought.

She never cleans — Michael mentions that all the time. Maybe he put it somewhere you’d only find while cleaning! Check the trash cans? No. Empty. Where do you put things you use for cleaning? In some kind of... cleaning… cubby? Who knows. Never mind.

She never cooks — okay — but there’s nothing cooking-related in a bedroom. Stupid. Next idea.

She never did laundry; that’s something — Michael would know that. He’d count on that. His laundry hamper — stashed in the closet — cheap red plastic. Perfect.

She dragged it into the open, dug into it, both hands sorting through shirts and pants and jeans and — there we go, something cold. Leather! No, wait. Cloth. Cold cloth? She frowned, pulled —

No checkbook. (False alarm.) It was an undershirt, white, damp with sweat.

Bike rides. Right. Summer heat. He must have been home to change this afternoon before heading out again.

She turned the shirt over in her hands; it was still warm (is it her imagination? it’s cold in the room; how could this be warm?). Its tag had been cut off, and the few rough uncomfortable threads left tickled her wrist.

What followed came of no conscious decision; some part of her, deep below the surface, knew what to do, and didn’t particularly concern itself with the consequences _(what are you, chicken? chaw-chee-chaw, girl)_. She lifted the shirt; pressed her face into the fabric, right where the damp sweat still lingered; breathed in, deep.

It sunk deep into her, surged powerfully through her, filled her with heat; she felt her head spin and her legs tremble. She breathed in again.

Strong. (Manly.) Powerful. (Virile.) Here. ( _Here_.) Breathe in.

Adrenaline spiked into her. She could see — _see_ — him in front of her, (breathe in again, deeper this time,)

dripping, panting, shirt unbuttoned, grey eyes meeting hers, (breathe in,)

Michael, (breathe in,) please, (breathe in,)

_Michael_ —

Just as Michael stepped towards her — _breathe_ — her conscious mind woke up, looked around, and hit Pause on the world.

It poked its head around the mental corner, said excuse me, noted that this was her brother’s shirt, explained that she was fantasizing about him, pointed out that she was more turned on than she had been in _forever_ , asked in a polite but firm voice what the _fuck_ was going on, then hit Play again.

She reeled back as if someone had just struck her.

She stumbled, her sandal snagging on the carpet, and caught herself on the edge of the bed. Her heart beat the last few measures of a frantic crescendo, sounding quite strange now that it had been abandoned by the rest of the players, percussion without melody. She was suddenly, acutely, _precisely_ aware of how quiet the house was.

The shirt lay on the floor, the wrinkles where her hands had grasped it disappearing in front of her eyes. She watched it until they were gone.

“I really need to get a divorce,” she muttered.


	2. Chapter 2

The next time was three weeks later. It didn’t feel as innocent.

Of course she had a vibrator. A few. There was nothing to be ashamed of; she was a sexually-liberated, independent woman with a husband who didn’t at all understand what it took to please a woman. It would be suspicious if she _didn’t_ keep a few around.

It might have been her coming down off the tail-end of Teamocil, or the sterility of being in the bedroom she shared with Tobias, or just plain old physical resistance. It didn’t matter, really. The fact was that she just couldn’t get off.

She had started with her tiny little lipstick-sized bullet vibrator, moved up to the more regular, pink silicone number, and was now thoroughly debasing herself with a thick, black, veined monster she had picked up years earlier (it made her feel wonderfully dirty to use it), and none of them had gotten her quite _there_. It was beyond maddening.

She gave it her all: twisting her body, lifting her hips, sweat sliding down her skin in rivulets to soak into the bedsheets. She called and sang and swore and cried out to her heart’s content, filling the empty house with her voice. She thought of her every dirty, depraved fantasy — getting on her knees in the grime of a back alley, following a stranger into the bathroom at a club, feeling the bite of a whip against her back. She _fought_ for it, _pleaded_ for it — but nothing came.

She concentrated harder — thought of rubbing her body against a stranger, hands seeking a firm, warm home through rough denim. She thought of a man she didn’t know pushing her against a wall. She thought of the smell of dirt and sweat and steam. She _felt_ him pushing into her, rough, unprotected. She could count every single hair on his chest, felt every move of his muscled arms, as she spread for him, allowing him to thrust deeply inside her, faster, _faster_ —

And the front door opened downstairs.

The clock struck midnight; her carriage turned back into a pumpkin. Her anonymous stranger stopped pounding into her, the strong hands holding her disappeared, the back alley vanished. She found herself a depressed, sweaty and utterly sexually frustrated thirtysomething masturbating fruitlessly in a loveless bed.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Lindsay whispered, her hips sagging back down to the sheets. She opened her eyes, switched off the vibrator, sighed.

Footsteps came up the stairs, running, taking them by twos; walked past her room (she glanced at the door; it was locked, thank god); entered the one next to hers.

 _Michael’s room_ , she thought, quite innocently.

 _Michael_ , some part of her repeated.

And like that, things were different. Now she wasn’t trying; she wasn’t fighting; now something rose up in her own its very own. Some coiled, starved, repressed thing woke inside her, and its slithering movement made her shiver.

Her hand moved without her willing it to; she watched it creep over to the vibrator, twist its base, heard it hum to quiet, gentle life.

She heard the rustling of cloth from the next room, pacing. He was changing his clothes. She remembered the smell of his shirt.

The vibrator pushed against her lips again, soft, insistent.

 _I wonder if Michael's cock would feel like this,_ the thing inside her wondered

 _Jesus, Lindsay!_ She cringed, made a face, willed the thought down. _Gross. He’s my brother. No. Come on. Back to something nice._

 _Nice like Michael,_ she added.

She frowned, took a deep breath.

_What about the alley? It’s a nice alley, Lindsay. You should be happy._

_I am happy,_ she said with a smile, toying with the buttons on his shirt. _Especially with you here._ She looked into his eyes, felt warmth soak through her.

 _It’s nice to have some time together, just the two of us,_ Michael murmured, the streetlight casting shadows on the wall behind him. His hand was on her face. His thumb played over her lips. Her eyes met his.

 _Time for what?_ she asked, her heart pounding. She knew; she had always known; she just wanted to hear him say it.

 _Whatever you want,_ he said, torture in the guise of courtesy.

She whimpered. _Please. Please, Michael._ She pressed against him. _Say it._ She could feel her need rising, shocks running up her sides.

_Say I want to make my sister my whore? Want to fuck her bareback in an alleyway? Say I won’t stop until I come deep inside her over and_

ooooh god yes — Michael — MichaelMichael _Michael_ —

She came, hard — she bit down on the bedsheets — her legs clenched around the vibrator, she twisted, shook. Another wave slammed into her; she kicked and tossed — _fuck fuck fuck_ — tore at the covers — _how is this still going!?_ — bucked — arched — grabbed her breasts — shivered, went so tense her muscles ached — she would have to scream, she couldn’t help it _oh god oh fuck fuck fuckfuckfuckFUCK_ —

The strangled, quiet cry sank into the cloth in her mouth; it lost some of its power; emerged as a primal groan, drawn-out, just the guttural hint of the words “oh god” mixed in. Lindsay never really heard it. She wasn’t there at the time.

Her mind came back to her in pieces. Aftershocks still ran down her spine; her ears rang, and the world was curiously muffled and soft. She ran her fingers idly between her legs, drew them back to her mouth, sucked them in. She blinked slowly, a dazed smile plastered on her face, blonde hair sticking to sweat-drenched pale skin.

She heard him leave his room; walk past her door; exit the house. She felt inexpressibly happy; then discovered why.

 _The next time,_ she thought before she could stop herself, _I can call his name._

**Author's Note:**

> Your comments are always much appreciated.


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